


Not That Kind of Night

by TashaVick87



Category: Succession (TV 2018)
Genre: Emotional, F/M, Fluffy, Post S2, settling their connection post the yacht moments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:35:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27776971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TashaVick87/pseuds/TashaVick87
Summary: What if they turned this, whatever this was, into something solid...something not so out of the ordinary and yet so new that it will make the very foundations of the Roy empire falter in their cast-iron grids? Food for thought.
Relationships: Gerri Kellman/Roman "Romulus" Roy
Comments: 8
Kudos: 37





	Not That Kind of Night

It was never about Baird and her or her with any other man. She had never existed as a pair, a unit onto herself. It was the singularity of Gerri, the way she ate up flirtation and sugar-coated insults alike sent her way, smoke in the sapphire flint of her eyes, not caring whether they talked behind her back. Stone cold killer bitch and all that. She was pretty surprised by the accuracy of Roman's description of the way she believed others saw her.

And Roman. The spoiled daddy's boy, the not-really emotionally functional runt of the litter, always a step behind her – at first – and then slowly coming into his own, their current strides matching, his growing as bold and sure as hers, the hand-holding no longer as necessary.

It was about their bond, a new frail thing, and yet stronger than any Gerri had witnessed or experienced in her professional and personal lifetime.

The phone calls were an odd way to step out of her zone of comfort, but she'd allowed them nonetheless. She'd reasoned it was because he needed it, never thought twice about the heat between her own legs and the molten weight in the pit of her stomach at hearing his desperate groans, never once indulged.

Ever since Croatia, though, ever since Roman defended her the way he did, putting himself in the line of fire, she can't help but let herself imagine. What if they turned this, whatever this was, into something solid...something not so out of the ordinary and yet so new that it will make the very foundations of the Roy empire falter in their cast-iron grids? Food for thought.

But such thoughts are often, as of late, interrupted by unwelcome feelings of guilt. At not having spoken to Roman in over a week, work being so busy that they had no time for anything other than a brief glance in a crowded business meeting or as they passed each other in the hallways. Memos and business texts also didn't count.

She also feels like the wicked witch of the west for not having spoken to him at all about his hostage situation, holding him unreasonably accountable to pick himself back up on his own, knowing fully that it was a role she had assigned herself.

The fact of the matter is she couldn't allow herself to dwell on it too much because she knew she would break down. She had kept her cool, her facade not slipping once, even making that god-awful, unforgiveable joke as he stepped onto the yacht.

But she had been a mess, her stomach clawing and roiling, unable to keep any food down.

And when he'd been returned, she could only allow herself – both of them really – a single deep breath as the world continued to turn.

* * *

She hears her phone ring but she is too tired to lift a finger to get it out of her purse. She is settled in her favorite armchair, having arrived home, lacking the strength to do anything but kick off her heels and rest for the better part of an hour.

She hadn't ignored a phone call in years, feels like she's earned the privilege.

Not fifteen minutes later, she is brushing her hair into its usual smooth coif after a hot shower and hears a frantic knocking on her front door, somebody letting themselves in.

She knows her doorman only has instruction to let three people up no questions asked and she's sure as hell that her daughters hadn't decided on a spontaneous visit.

''I didn't think one unanswered phone call warranted a checkup, Romulus.''

She sees him flinch at his birth name as he enters her bedroom, following the sound of her voice. She knows the reason his full name stings on the rare occasions she utters it was because she almost never does and Logan prefers to use it as a weapon. She decides to cut it from their conversations from then on.

''I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.''

He looks slightly frantic, chest heaving minutely, as if he ran up the stairs instead of using the elevator. Though, of course he did, his nerves are always so on edge, there is no way he would have been able to wait for the elevator to arrive.

''Sit.''

He does, obedient as ever, placing himself, cross-legged, on the floor.

''On the bed, Rome, this is not one of those nights.''

Though what kind of night she is referring to she has no idea. They've only done this by phone and that one time when she shelved him in the bathroom like a secret she was ashamed of. Additionally, all of that had been put on hold since Croatia, due to Kendall's stunt and the subsequent shit they have had to deal with.

* * *

His marriage proposal lingers in the back of her mind just as it has done since the moment he uttered those words. At first she thought he was kidding, of course he was, this thing of theirs was just that – a fling to keep his morale up, keep the company afloat. Or so she believed. And then she couldn't stop thinking about it. Thinking about him and whether it was worth it.

She couldn't fathom that one day, so very soon, she would be thinking of him, imagining his precious slime puppy eyes begging for release as she chased her own. That she would bathe her hormonal frenzy in the memory of his moans as she brought herself to completion imagining him inside her.

And yet, every night that week, the week she has absolutely no such contact with him, that is all she can bring herself to do as she gets home from her self-appointed work prison.

And when she does it, she hears his voice as clear as day... _should we...get married...you eat me I eat you?_ Unsure and needy, clinging to her, the only person able to absolve of sins and procure a balm for the unpardonable ones.

She hears herself say his name over and over again as she comes, back arching off the couch, three fingers knuckle-deep, filling and insufficient at the same time. Yes, she thinks, as her skin cools and the smell of her orgasm mixes with the orange flower fragrance of her Dior body wash. She will marry him.

* * *

He sits on her bed, watching her, mesmerized, putting on her lotion, meticulous and gentle pats against her alabaster skin, and he can't look away. Thinks that maybe, if he was given the option he would be willing to be chained there forever, watching her nightly routine unfold. They wouldn't even need restraints to keep him in place, the very aroma of Gerri would keep him her slave for all eternity.

Yes, there are some issues there that need resolving, like why insults are the way to go about his initial attraction for her. Sure, they are a part of it still, but it had been building steadily into something way bigger than both of them ever since that first time she led him into oblivion with her sharp tongue-lashing, solidified as something so unique the very moment of the next day when they met and he saw absolutely no reprimand in her eyes.

He proposed for convenience, yes. And maybe, at the time he wasn't that certain of the rest of his reasoning for wanting to marry her but after Turkey and Kendal and the blood sacrifice maneuver he absolutely had to pull to get Gerri out of the limelight, he knew.

Not a single person in this entire fucked up greedy little world knows him like she does. No one wants better for him. And he wants it, needs it, will forever crave this with her - the two of them, together a team in every possible way.

The brilliance of her was invisible to him for so long, but now that his eyes were opened, he was fucking damned if he was going to let her slip away.

He thinks back to the unanswered call, and has no idea why his first thought was to come running to check if she was okay. Unbeknownst to her, he was barely able to focus on anything but her presence for the entire week they were back and dealing with Ken's shitstorm.

But, he also knew she needed space and time to think, get re-acquainted with the special type of equilibrium she always required in order to deal with the epic failures of the Roy dynasty. God, the Roy dynasty...what a joke.

He'd very gladly pull a Prince Harry and take her away from all of it if he had the slightest inkling that that was what she wanted. But he knows Gerri Kellman, just as she is able to read him for the whiny filth that he is. She will be the ruler of the world he was born into, and he will help her by being on his best behavior, hoping that his skill at their special type of Chess with Death was up to par.

* * *

''Hey, Ger…''

The rarely used nickname startles her from her thoughts – as always full of him, bouncing and untethered in her mind, making it unable for her to breathe properly – and she turns her gaze at him through the reflection in her vanity mirror.

''Yes, _Rome_?''

She sees him try and smother a smug smile, and thinks that, as far as the Roy family subservience goes, she’s done a good job at cultivating it in him beyond the usual meager scope the rest of his family deigned to give out, scorn and disdain being their primary setting.

She lets out a breath, shoulders sagging slightly forward, and feels the cool material of her silk robe slide against her sensitive skin, still raw from the boiling hot shower.

He is at her side in a second, strong slender fingers kneading the tense muscles of her neck and shoulders, and she can’t help but roll her eyes in pleasure, head thudding backwards onto his taut lower stomach.

''Tired?

''Always'', she answers, opening her eyes now, locking them with his.

''Is there a specific reason you came here tonight, Roman?''

Her voice is walking a line now. Not calm and collected, not quite, but rather cautious, seeing just how much of her own thoughts he would be okay with processing in one go. Because she knows they can’t go on like this, not having discussed their plans.

It all starts from home base, she knew that. Unless her personal life was settled it would always seep into her work hours, and with Roman Roy in the equation, it was bound to be even worse if left unattended for too long.

* * *

She knows how to ask all the pertinent questions without batting an eye. He tries to calm the jangle of nerves in his wired body and focuses instead on the lulling movement of the massage he is trying to soothe her aches with.

''I um…well, it’s been a while and I well…fuck, Gerri, I just wanted to see you. Without Karolina breathing down my neck about the latest PR disaster she uncovered on Twitter, without work memos and briefs between us. And I know, _I know_ we are busy, _you_ are busy, but…it’s not stable, this thing we’re doing, it’s not us unless we are officially _‘us’_. And I don’t necessarily mean my pitiful marriage proposal, though I would like to remind you that - though completely fucked up in its wording - it still stands.''

He sees her flinch slightly at the mention of the proposal, and can’t decide whether it was a good or bad reaction. Fuck it, he thinks. As usual, it’s _’’on your knees, ass up’’_ time, and there is no one he does it gladly for except her.

‘‘You know I will take everything you would be willing to give me, Gerri. Don’t ever think otherwise. Never think I would force you into something you don’t want.’‘

Her hands come up to grasp his and he realizes this is the first time she has touched him properly.

When he dares to search the look on her face he knows he said all the right things, and that as usual, they are on the same page. Knows he nailed it when her eyes pierce through him, pupils dilating, sees her cross her legs and push herself slightly forward in her seat.

* * *

She would never admit it to anyone but him - and even to him only via actions and not words - that she is as turned on as she has ever been, the power dynamics of the two of them, fucked up or not, completely work for them and she is tired, just so tired of being proper.

It is mind-numbingly exhausting to be thinking of optics and the gaze of others all the time. Shiv’s face comes to mind as she imagines telling her she is now their family and she decides that the shock that would register on her new sister in law’s face would definitely be worth all the shit any of them would try and sling at the both of them.

''Roman?''

She sees him having trouble pulling his eyes away from the décolletage he is privy to from his vantage point and smiles as she twists away and up from her seat, faces him.

''Hm?''

''Yes.''

It’s her answer, he knows it, it’s in the way the barely there syllable coils around the elements it consists of, a few decibels lower, the unique, rare timidity of Gerri Kellman so obvious to him. And still she holds his gaze, daring him to ruin the moment, smiling almost beatifically. He would never, and she knows it, but the stone cold killer bitch front is a tough one to put aside completely, he understands. It’s part of why he-…well, no point hiding it now.

''I love you.''

He sees her focus her crystal blues on the column of his throat, and the way he finds it hard to swallow past a lump now that he has bared what was left of his fucked up psyche to actually bare.

‘‘I love you, too.’‘

It is by no means a standard relationship, engaged before the first kiss, and he almost laughs at the thought, chooses instead to grin wolfishly, cups her face, marvels at the way her skin pinks up from their brief and meaningful exchange.

''Roman?''

He hums in response, and she shivers, tipping his chin slightly upwards using two steady fingers. The look he sees in her eyes now is different in quality but by no means any less intense. It’s the look he’d imagined on her face when she talked him through numerous orgasms, the look he imagined he would want to wipe off her face by providing countless ecstatic moments, taking her on the floor of her office, on her desk, anywhere he could get his hands on her, his tongue inside her.

And yet, the lump in his throat is still there as he awaits full permission.

She tilts her head closer, into the crook of his neck and he can feel the ghosting of her mint scented words across his sweaty skin and his heart rate skyrockets.

''Fuck me.''


End file.
